


I believe in happy endings

by flutter



Category: Jem and the Holograms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-01
Updated: 2005-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutter/pseuds/flutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Before they became Danse and Riot. (Yes, I'm a fan of obscure fandoms and characters. Woops.) This was intended to be the first in a 3-part story but I dropped out of fic writing all together before I completed it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	I believe in happy endings

**Author's Note:**

> Before they became Danse and Riot. (Yes, I'm a fan of obscure fandoms and characters. Woops.) This was intended to be the first in a 3-part story but I dropped out of fic writing all together before I completed it.

Giselle Dvorak doesn't like France. That is to say, she doesn't like what she sees outside of her train compartment's window. The grass is green, the sky is blue—everything is the same as it was in the States. So why was she on a rickety old train, practically flying through the French countryside? She's not old enough to drink wine, she finds the accent irritating and she's not even a fan of cheese!

"Giselle," Nadia had said, in a voice that pinged and reverberated through their long-distance call. "You absolutely must come to France. Zagreb Ballet has stopped and we're here for a week. We'll spend our days shopping and pretending to be Real French Girls, moja draga."

Giselle didn't want to be a real french girl; she wanted to be back in America and she was upset that her mother had insisted on her coming. No, if Giselle was honest with herself, she'd admit that seeing her mother would be nice; she didn't have many chances to see her much at all and she remembered loving to watch her dance on stage. She loved, even more, to practice those same steps in her mother's dressing room in the evening's that followed.

The window was cool where she pressed her cheek to it and Giselle felt the scowl that creased her forehead slip as she smiled for the sensation. She was perfectly content to sit there, her cheek smooshed and cool, while dancing in her mind. She kept her eyes closed, allowing her mind to wander, following it as she made new steps materialize and set them to memory.

The train car bounced along in procession and Giselle slipped lightly, like morning rays through dusty blinds, into a heavy, dreamless sleep; her head rolled with each jarring movement.

 

#

 

Her mother—"Please, moja draga, I have a _name_ ; if you call me 'mother' people will think I'm _old_ "—was the Principal dancer in Zagreb Ballet. And _Nadia_ would berate her if she knew of Giselle's dreams to mix Ballet and Modern dance steps together. Her mother's voice, now like a scratched record looping and incessant in her head, told her how wonderful it would be when her "American Training" was finished. Giselle, naturally, could leave America to join Nadia on the ballet company's tour; maybe she could be a chorus girl, her mother would often suggest.

Giselle didn't want to be a chorus girl. What she wanted— _turn the train around, please just turn the train around!_ —wasn't going to happen.

As soon as Giselle had stepped down onto the station platform, her mother cooed and opened her arms wide. She wasn't sure if her mother wanted her to rush for a hug or if she was asking for an opinion on her outfit ("Giselle, moja draga, look at this beautiful blue—I got it on sale when the company stopped over in…"). She opted instead for a lean and a quick kiss on the cheek.

When Giselle straightened she grabbed her bags and hoisted one over her shoulder. She turned to walk with her mother out of the station and was immediately stopped by a sudden eclipse. The day had been blocked of all light and her nose, once full of the many trains' exhaust, was now excited over a scent of spice and perspiration. She was close to pressing her face into the source of the scent, just as she had done to the train's window, until she heard a low cough erupt from it and she jerked back.

"Now that we seem to know each other," the voice belonging to the scent had said, "perhaps I should introduce myself."

Giselle heard a click as if rocks had been struck together.

"Private Rory Llewelyn of the United States Army, at your service."

Her gaze, still intent on the chest that had blotted out the sun, paused before traveling to the man's face. _Beautiful_.

Private Rory Llewelyn had the sort of white-blonde hair that women bleached for. It wasn't his hair that stopped her from breathing, though it was very nice. Nor was it his voice, as if wrapped in silk the color of dark chocolate, rich and smooth, though that was nice too. It was the color of his eyes. They were a shade of turquoise so light, so close to the sky above, that she felt she could fall into the depths of them and see the world miles below.

She felt weightless and, if she didn't start breathing soon, she felt certain she was going to pass out in front of everyone on the platform.

"…my daughter, Giselle," she heard her mother say, her voice more girlish than Giselle remembered ever hearing it before. "And my name," her mother spoke again, holding her hand out to the man, "is _Miss_ Nadia Dvorak."

Giselle listened to her mother's less-than-veiled attempts to seduce the man's attention from her daughter. The man, the man— _what was his name again?_ _Why can't I think?_

Her mind swirled and Giselle decided to let go of any attempt to find a coherent thought in her head. She let herself float around in the twin skies in his face, let herself drift in the gaze that locked her eyes to his.

She may have said something, may have made a sound, but she didn't remember. All she knew was that at one moment all she could hear was a buzz of her mother's chatter and the eyes in that handsome face, and at the next she heard a rap of thunder speak her name.

"Giselle," the thunder said. "Giselle."

And the moment her eyes dropped from his, the very moment they found his mouth, she realized his voice was the thunder in her head. Giselle plummeted.

The ground of the train station was warm.


End file.
